Boys

  "Sorry I parked in your grass," I said, looking back at the truck, white smoke rising from under the hood, the smell of burnt rubber in the air.

  "Keep the change," the old man said, taking his food then slamming the door in my face.

  The next delivery was maybe a quarter mile away, at the most, and it took me a good fifteen minutes to coerce the poor truck to get me there. No matter what I tried to do, no matter what gentle motion I attempted to shuffle between my feet, the truck would not cooperate with me. Like a raging bull within the death throes of a bull fight, I battled the beast to submit but its obstinance and pride got the best of me. I felt like the truck was about to explode when I reached the second house. I was able to keep the tires off the lawn this time. When I lifted my foot off the clutch, the truck violently lurched forward then died.

  I ran to the door with their delivery. Again, I furiously knocked on the door. I knew I was taking entirely too long to deliver their food. A tiny old lady opened the door--a margarita in one hand, a Virginia Slims 120 cigarette in the other, wearing a loose fitting mumu with the gaudiest floral pattern I had ever seen adorned on an article of clothing--and she gazed over my shoulder at the smoking delivery vehicle in the street.

  "You're not Demitri," she said, puzzled.

  "No ma'am. I'm Sam. I work for Demitri," I said, running my fingers through my hair, attempting to fix myself up.

  "Oh, that's too bad. I always look forward to Demitri visiting me. He usually comes inside and chats with me."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, and if I'm lucky, he'll give me a nice foot rub."

  "Oh... well. I'm kinda too busy for--"

  "Did you forget the baklava?"

  "I don't think so." I handed her the delivery bags and she handed me a $20 bill. I patted my pockets but I knew I didn't have any change.

  "Keep it," she said. "You really look like you need it." She smiled at me with her stained dentures and bright pink lips then winked at me and closed the door. I couldn't get the image out of my mind of Demitri rubbing her wrinkly, knotty feet, a pervy grin peeking out from under his bushy moustache.

  Back in the truck, I read the delivery instructions, mapping in my mind the next destination, when I realized that there were no more bags in the truck to deliver. I stared at the passenger seat for ten, maybe fifteen seconds, as if I stared hard enough they would reappear, but they didn't. I then looked on the floor board, behind the seat, out the back window at the truck bed to see if they magically moved from inside the cab to the outside of the cab without my knowledge. The bags weren't there either. I must have inadvertently given the rest of the food to the old man with the cockatiel hair and the old lady with the floral mumu. A part of me was disappointed in myself for messing up my first delivery assignment, but another part of me was relieved that I could go back to the restaurant and resume my normal duties of washing dishes and bussing tables. I only hoped I could make it back to the restaurant with the truck in one piece.

  When I got back from the long, torturous ride, I parked the truck the best I could at the farthest point in the parking lot from the restaurant. I was surprised it made it back, seriously. As I walked to the front door of Demitri's, I looked back at the truck, smoke rising to the night sky, the smell of oily, singed motor components in the air. I knew I broke it but I wasn't going to admit it to anyone. I decided to just pretend everything went well. Inside, the long line of hungry patrons dissipated and so had Demitri's furious pace. He stood next to his sister behind the counter while she took the last of the dinner rush orders. He was counting stacks of cash, a big grin on his face, a happy tune hummed under his breath. He saw me come in and winked at me.

  "There's my boy! How did it go?"

  "Fine," I said, making a beeline to the back.

  "You have some money for me?"

  "Yeah," I said, pulling the bills from my pocket and tossing them on the counter. I dashed to the back as quick as I could.

  "Wait! There should be more money," he said.

  I didn't reply. I put on my apron and washed dishes.

  ***

  Most nights, when I wasn't at work, I was at home. And most of those nights, I thought about owning a 1980 Mazda RX-7. Or, if I couldn't find an '80, then I would have been OK with a '78 or a '79, just not an '81 because they were different, and I didn't want one of those. My dad would bring the newspaper back home from work where he took it to read while on a coffee break or in the crapper, or wherever he was when he wanted to read the newspaper. I would pull out the auto classified section and take it into my room so I could scour through it, marking listings that sounded close to what I wanted with a colored marker, usually green, my favorite color. Also, if I had a few extra dollars on me, I would buy a copy of Auto Trader and scour that magazine for ads too, but they usually seemed to have a crappier selection of cars. I wasn't sure why that was, but they rarely had many listings for Mazda RX-7's. They mostly listed American cars like Chevys and Fords and Buicks and shit like that but I looked anyway, just in case.

  On the floor in my room, I laid sprawled out on my stomach, the newspaper and Auto Trader magazine spread out in front of me, a series of colored markers next to me, different colors for different marking emphasis, green usually meaning "YES!" and the other colors meaning lesser versions of "yes" or "ok." I listened to Scritti Politti while I scribbled on the pages. My dad knocked on the door and popped his head in, giving me a sour look.

  "I've been knocking on your door for 30 seconds," he said, his lips twisting into a disappointed pretzel.

  "Sorry," I said. "I didn't hear you."

  "Sure, sorry. Don't you have homework?"

  "It's summer, dad."

  "Right. I need to talk to you for a moment, OK?"

  He entered my room and found an uncluttered spot at the corner of my bed to sit down. I pushed the newspaper aside and sat up, crossing my legs. He seemed a little excited, which was very unusual for him. His demeanor was usually either sour or bitter so anything other than those two emotional states was strange for the rest of us in the family. A crooked smirk appeared on his face.

  "I have a coworker who has an elderly mother selling her car. It has extremely low miles and is in excellent shape, like new really. She only drove it to church or the hair salon a couple of times a month. It's practically new!"

  "What kind of car is it?"

  "A 1977 Toyota Corona. It's brown."

  "A Toyota Corolla?" I said, worried.

  "No, it's called a Corona. I hadn't heard of it either but that's what it's called."

  "Oh."

  "Oh? Is that all you have to say? This is a good deal and a great used car."

  "But I was hoping to save my money for a Mazda RX--"

  "You're not getting a Mazda RX-7. I'm buying this car. It's too good a deal to pass up. They only want $2,000. Heck of a price!" He stood up and put his hands on his hips. "I'll let you know when I'm going to pick it up and I'll transfer the money you've earned from the restaurant into my account when I need it."

  He stepped over the newspaper and left my room. I sat there for a moment, an image of the car I wanted still lingering around in my brain, looking down at the ads in the newspaper and the scribbles and the lines I had drawn into a colorful constellation of circles and arrows and exclamation points and stars. I got back down on the floor, laid on my stomach, grabbed a marker, and looked for more ads of Mazda RX-7s.

  ***

  The next shift I had after the "delivery incident," I called in sick. I was worried that Demitri was going to be mad at me for messing up the delivery truck. I was also worried he knew I lied about knowing how to drive. When I called in, his sister Desmona answered. I told her I was sick and that I wasn't coming in.

  "OK. I'll tell Demitri," she said and hung up the phone.

  A few hours later, Demitri called me at home.

  "You OK?" he said. I could hear his moustache rustling against the headset. He sounded concerned yet upbeat and a little a
nxious.

  "Yeah."

  "You're not going to die, are you?"

  "No."

  "Good because you're one of my best employees. I need you. Got it?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good. Get some rest and I'll see you tomorrow night."

  "OK."

  "Good night, jerk face!" He hung up the phone.

  I wondered if he had even driven the delivery truck since the other night. I certainly destroyed the transmission on that thing. In fact, I was pretty certain I caused catastrophic damage to it. Although, come to think of it, I wasn't absolutely sure. I was just a dumb kid. Anyway, he didn't sound angry on the phone so I decided to go to work the next night, like he wanted.

  My mother gave me a lift to work the next evening. As we passed by my high school, I looked for the boy with the bright red Mustang but he wasn't parked there. Nobody was in the parking lot I recognized except a security guard sitting in a parked golf cart. A wispy sigh seeped out of my mouth as I looked out the window at the school. My mother placed her hand on my shoulder.

  "You all right, sweetie?" she said.

  "Yeah."

  "You don't sound OK. You're not sick, are you?"

  "I'll be fine."

  "Are you looking forward to getting your new car? Your dad tells me it's in really good shape."

  "Yeah."

  "Sheesh. Don't get too excited, Wordy McTalkative," she said, sarcastically.

  "I was really hoping to get an RX-7."

  "Not that again," she said, lifting her hand off my shoulder. She peered out of her window. "Jesus. You've got a one-track mind."

  I didn't speak the rest of the way to work. She pulled up to the curb at the shopping center, I got out, and she sped away, her Toyota Camry leaving a plume of dust, smoke, and gravel hanging in the air. As I walked toward the restaurant, I looked around for the delivery truck. I didn't see it anywhere. The worry I had the night before made a dramatic return, a feeling in my stomach like a hunk of cement tossed in a placid pond, and I was certain I was going to get fired. Or worse, yelled at by Demitri then having him call my parents. Ugh. After I entered, I headed straight for the back and immediately began washing dishes. Demitri didn't come around for a long while and I couldn't figure out why. Eventually, after worrying about it through five loads of dirty dishes, Desmona came into the back, bringing more dirty dishes from the dining area.

  "Hi Sam," she said, setting the dish tub next to the sink and turning around to walk away.

  "Is Demitri here?!" I said, blurting it out like a game show contestant beating the buzzer to end a big-money round. I took a deep breath when I realized just how stupid I sounded.

  "No, he's out, doing a few things. But I know he wants to talk to you, about something important. He told me to tell you that."

  "What about?" I said, nervous.

  "How do I know? I'm not Demitri."

  "He didn't say what about?"

  "No. Now, get back to work." She left.

  Her comment made me even more nervous. He knew. And I knew he knew that I didn't know how to drive and that I fucked up his delivery truck. The dread weighed on me, a lot, so rather than seek out Demitri, I just skirted around the perimeter of restaurant business. I stayed in the back mostly, but when I had to come out to bus tables, I walked along the walls of the dining area, like a ninja except carrying a bus tub and wearing an apron, trying not to be seen. I wasn't very good at it though. Demitri found me rather quickly.

  "Sam, I need you outside. It's important," he said when he found me, a heavy hand on my shoulder, a serious tone in his voice.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "I don't know," he said, confused. "You tell me?"

  "Ummm."

  "Just come with me, please."

  I followed Demitri through the dining area, through the front door, and outside in front of the restaurant.

  "You wait here," he said, running off around the side of the building.

  I didn't know what to think and expected the worst. It was bad enough that I knew I wasn't getting the car I wanted but to lose my job as well would have been too much. What would be next? My parents getting a divorce?! Jesus.

  As I stood there waiting for Demitri to do God knows what, I heard a rumbling sound, not too different from the sound of some kind of drag racing car, a deep, gurgling, mechanical roar from behind the building. I could feel the rumbling through the concrete under my feet and as it got stronger and more forceful, Demitri appeared from around the building driving a monster-sized, white pickup truck so large that it was comical. It was huge and loud and ridiculous. In the driver seat of the massive off-road truck, Demitri appeared diminutive in size, small like a toddler sitting on a phone book trying to look out the best he could. He rolled down the driver side window and unfurled a magnetized sign that he stuck to the outside of the door. It read, "Demitri's Greek Food DELIVERS! Call 49G-REEK!" After reading the sign, I looked up at him, hanging out the window with a big shit-eating grin on his face. He looked like a kid getting ready to unleash the fury of impatient hands on Christmas morning presents. He turned off the engine, opened the door, and jumped down. He firmly placed his hand on my shoulder, as he liked to do.

  "Sam, my boy, this is our new delivery truck. What do you think?"

  "What happened to the other truck?" I said, meek and worried.

  "I don't know. Something was wrong with it but that's not your fault. It was old and rundown and... well, it was time for something new. This truck will pay for itself as advertising! It makes a statement." He placed his hands on his hips in his masculine, super hero pose.

  "You can't miss it," I said, a little happier, relieved.

  "Exactly, my boy! And you, YOU are my new delivery driver."

  "What? Me?!"

  "Yes, you. I need to increase revenue. The restaurant is too small to fill with more customers. I must get my food to the people who want delicious Greek food but don't want to wait in our long lines. What do you think?"

  "It makes sense."

  "Good," he said, squeezing my shoulder tighter, leaning in. "Do you accept this promotion?"

  "Yeah."

  "OK. Go wash up and take that dirty apron off. You have deliveries to make."

  He slapped me on the back and gave me a little shove. I ran to the back area of the restaurant, washed my hands and face, yanked off my apron, tossed it to the floor, and ran back out front. Demitri handed me the key to the monster truck--well, it wasn't really a monster truck in the literal sense but it was massive nonetheless--and told me he'd bring out the deliveries. I climbed up into the beast and sat in the cushy driver seat. The steering wheel was wrapped with a fuzzy cover, black like the rest of the interior of the white truck. I adjusted the seat and the rearview mirror, wiggling my posterior to make myself more comfortable for only my second outing in an automobile. Crazy to think but true. Demitri soon came back out with a single to-go bag in his hand. He smiled as he looked up at me in that giant, gaudy, delivery / advertising truck.

  "Just one to-go order for now. More will come later, I'm sure. This order is for Ms. Cazamine who lives right back there. She's the old lady who--"

  "I don't have to give her a foot rub, do I?"

  "No, my boy. No foot rub," he said, smiling. "Now, take your time. Get used to driving this thing. It's your new office! Ready?"

  "Yeah."

  "Turn it on."

  I turned the key and the engine roared to life, smoke billowing from out back, the chassis shaking, and some loose paneling inside rattling. It possessed power that I had never experienced before. I felt its power through the seat right through my testicles. It was divine. I closed the driver-side door, waved to Demitri, pulled the column shifter, put the truck in "D," and slowly drove off. I immediately found it easier to drive without the manual shifter and I paid extra attention to not punch the gas too hard. I really didn't need to. Once I lifted my foot off the brake, it accelerated itself.

  I slowly pulled out of the
parking lot and navigated the truck to the neighborhood behind the restaurant. The sound of the truck must have been to that quiet neighborhood like when the Japanese first were aware of Godzilla in the distance, the ominous, rumbling noise from behind the mountains, or beyond the horizon scaring the soy beans out of the unsuspecting civilians, never having heard that sound before. The few kids still running around and playing kickball or dodgeball or whatever ball game they were playing in the dimly lit late evening ran for the curbs and looked on, their mouths agape, their eyes wide, at the massive white truck with a caricature of Demitri on its side rumbling through their sleepy neighborhood. Some of the kids even dared to toss empty soda cans into the bed of the truck but none of them were able to hit the target. I waved at them like a fireman driving through his precinct in a shiny, fire truck.

  When I arrived at Ms. Cazamine's house, I paid extra attention to not run over the curb or park in her lawn again. I killed the beastly truck and jumped down from the cab with the to-go food in my hand. After I rang the doorbell, I experienced a little déjà vu when she answered the door. There she was--a margarita in one hand, a Virginia Slims 120 cigarette in the other, wearing the same loose fitting, god-awful mumu she had on before--with a big, nicotine-stained, toothy smile on her face. I knew exactly what she was thinking: foot rub.

  "You're not Demitri," she said, bitter disappointment in her voice.

  "No ma'am. I'm Sam. I work for Demitri."

  "Oh, that's too bad. I always look forward to Demitri visiting me. He usually comes inside and chats with me."

  "I know. Here's your food," I said. She gave me a $20 bill.

  "Keep the change," she said, taking the food, a little frown on her face as she closed the door. I didn't care. I ran back to the truck, opened the door, and hopped in the cab.

  I felt a euphoria that I hadn't experienced in a very long time, a feeling of joy and adventurousness, a feeling that was more like an inner voice that told me to enjoy myself, have fun, go wild. I heard Demitri's voice in my brain insisting to take my time. When I started the truck, I decided to go somewhere first before heading back to the restaurant. I decided, right then and there, to go see that girl Kirsty, my math classmate, my crush. She didn't live too far away and I didn't think it would take too long to pay her a visit.